


The Feral Wren

by AltheaShepard



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Character Growth, F/M, Trust Issues, Winning friendships, more tags to come
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:09:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28031412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AltheaShepard/pseuds/AltheaShepard
Summary: The edges and creases of the papers are worn, the ink faded and almost illegible in places. There’s a seal stamped in the bottom right corner of the top page along with a scrawled signature.Urianger learns something about their newest hero.
Relationships: Urianger Augurelt & Warrior of Light
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21





	1. Chapter 1

The edges and creases of the papers are worn, the ink faded and almost illegible in places. There’s a seal stamped in the bottom right corner of the top page along with a scrawled signature. Numbers detail amounts paid, names attached to the hands accepting payment. More numbers outline services rendered, items supplied, amounts won to offset the debt. A list of accomplishments, more services provided. What he thinks from a quick glance is a birth certificate. Behind that are surprisingly detailed medical records starting two years after purchase when the “servant” began working off the investment. When the injuries took place and how, treatment administered, more numbers added to the bill. The final numbers are staggering, both the accrued debt with interest and the amassed repayment. Subtraction, addition, division, a final total paid out for final services rendered and a release from contract. 

The implications from the quick glances are horrifying.

His stomach twists upon and within itself as he slows to fully take in what is written. There is a life detailed here, cold statements of fact but for the letter of release thanking the recipient for their “service”. 

“Service” that resulted in a scar cutting through the left side. 

“Service” in the stiffness of joints when the cold nips a little too hard.

“Service” in blood soaking into the sands, the roaring cheers of a crowd seeing nothing of the “servant” and only of the sport they bet their coins on.

“If you can’t read it, I can find someone else,” 

He pulls his head from the papers, from the nightmare spilled in faded ink across worn parchment. She stands before him with one hand on her cocked hip, the other out in silent demand for the damning evidence in his hands. To the casual observer she is calm. Her ears are perked and her tail smooth, shoulders relaxed and posture open. But her eyes…. Sun bright gold and storm deep blue glare at him in warning and a promise of lasting pain should he speak beyond what was asked of him. 

That reminder of her request just cracks more of his chest open.

It isn’t with pity that he offers, for to pity her would be to diminish her, take away from what she’s built herself to be in spite of the sands grating against her bones until there was no trace left. Pity is the furthest thing from his mind as the scholar in him rises up in deeply burning offence that such a person be denied this most basic thing. Such a wrong cannot be allowed to sit while there is still breath in his lungs and blood pumping through his veins. 

“Though the ink hath faded,” he says, taking a moment to clear his throat, “Tis still legible.”

His hand comes up slowly, taking her outstretched one in a loose grasp. She watches him, eyes narrowing at the corners in warning, and lets herself be tugged closer to the lantern on the wall. He holds the papers in such a way that she must stand close to him as he brushes her fingers just under the curls of her name. 

“From this day forth, all debts pertaining to N’yxaela Wren are declared paid in full. Henceforth, N’yxaela Wren is released from the service of the House of Sand and Stone. All obligations to the House are hereby complete. Granted to her upon her departure are the funds generated from her last year of service as well as the material possessions in her quarters.”

“The clothes on my back and a worn out lance,” she whispers.

He has to swallow past the lump in his throat before he can continue.

“Enclosed with this letter is a detailed medical history over her time in service to the House as well as a birth certificate… provided by her father at… at the time of her employment.” 

“Time of my sale you mean,”

His hand spasms briefly around hers. She takes that as her cue to take the papers from him, folding them quickly and efficiently and placing them back in the pouch she pulled them from. Her face is impassive as she looks up at him and nods once in thanks.

“Thank you, Uriganger,” 

He doesn’t know if he should be astounded or worried as she walks away from him as though nothing is different. 

  
  
  
  


When next she comes to him, it is with another letter and her ears pressed flat to her head. She won’t meet his eye, lips downturned into a scowl and a flush trying to creep into her cheek. The letter is a crisp one, newly written and delivered though he can barely see the seal of whom it’s from. Her tail curls tight around her thigh as she glances at him and offers him the letter.

“If you’ve a moment,” her voice strains for a casual tone, “would you read this to me? The messenger said it was urgent and his timing is terrible as anyone else I could pawn it off to is busy.” 

Though her request is clipped and flippant, the undertones of warning are clear. To treat the situation with anything less than his usual respect woud entreat her ire and refusal to seek his assistance again. The scholar in him, deeply offended on her behalf, would not see such shame upon her face nor such mockery leave his lips. He beckons her closer, moving towards a lantern on the wall in the corner more hidden from the rest of the room. Carefully, she approaches, eyes narrowing once in warning before she hands over the letter. He breaks the seal and unfolds it, glancing over it once to familiarize himself with it. Then, he beckons her closer still. Once at his side, he carefully presses the back of his left hand to the palm of her right, remaining calm as she startles and watches him in askance. He doesn’t explain, merely presses his hand to hers again until she lets him raise it and extend his pinky along her index. Then, he directs her hand to the first line of the letter and begins to slowly read. 

The letter itself is an urgent matter yet his focus is entirely on her, watching her eyes dart across the page with a frown of concentration. Her ears lift just a little from her hair, trying to follow along as he carefully sounds out the longer words. For a brief moment, he’s reminded of his own teaching and his uncle’s hand guiding his own across the words much as he does now with N’yx. And much as then, he can see the pinches of frustration as she struggles to understand, much as he had as a boy. 

“You could just read this to me,” she snaps though she doesn’t remove her hand.

“Aye,” he agrees, “Yet such would be a disservice when I might simply teach thee.”

She snorts, eyes darting rapidly over the page again, body stock still.

“A servant has no need of such things.”

“Yet N’yxaela Wren doth,”

That draws her eye. Blue and gold burn into him, searching for lies, for mocking, for a trick. Quite against the norm, he reaches up to pull his goggles from his face to aid her search. Several moments pass, his hand still pressed to hers as she watches him. Then, slowly she looks away, back to the letter.

“What… what does the rest of it say?” she murmures.

He resettles his goggles as her ears lift from her hair and he continues through the rest. They’re moving as soon as the letter is complete, her stuffing the thing in a pouch to no doubt hide how she asked Urianger for help. Tis a secret he shall keep until she decides to reveal it. 

  
  
  


The days continue on. More primals, more issues with the Empire, the growing threat of the Ascians. All of it sends their nerves singing yet it seems to settle something in N’yxaela. Each twist is met with a raised eyebrow, every stone thrown countered with a curled lip. She is efficient with every primal she defeats, brushing off the accolades as though such a task were expected of her despite how very much she was simply thrown into this chaos. More letters come and more and more often she comes to him for aid. Each time, he draws her gently to his side and presses the back of his hand to her palm, extending his pinky under her index and slowly drawing their fingers across the page as each line is read. Without their notice, the rest of their fingers start to intertwine and curl inward. The scholar in him curls like a pleased cat in the sun, eager to assist her and help another sharp mind  _ learn _ . 

Tis memories of those moments that keep him strong in the face of Garlean capture. 

She comes for them in a whirl of wickedly sharp blade and feral snarl, cutting down swathes of garleans what would come within range of her lance. Biggs and Wedge work quickly to free them, knowing better than to enter the fray when she leaps from one enemy to the next. The moment his hands are free, he’s hurling a healing spell at her, bathing her in soft green aether to heal the cuts and bruises she’s no doubt ignoring. More garleans come, the scream of tearing metal and Imperial orders clog his ears. He burns with each spell thrown, the strain equal on Papalymo’s face. Briefly, he considers whether he needs to catch her around the waist to force her to retreat but she comes of her own accord, keeping in front of him as they’re backed towards a cliff. 

A leap of faith and they’re on the Enterprise, flying high into the sky. The sight of Ultima weapon sends a chill racing down his spine, though it is the sight of Thancred beside the Black Wolf that truly freezes his heart. He can spare little thought as they fly to the Alliance leaders, as they give their reassurances and stoke the fires of rebellion. There is much and more to do in the coming days and she complains of none of it. Hither and yon she flies, lending her strength to the organization of the counter offensive. No task seems too menial for her. On the eve of battle, Tataru furnishes her with new armor and a new lance. The blade is wickedly sharp, the counterweight perfectly balanced as she holds the lance on the back of her wrist and it doesn’t sway to one side or the other. She thanks Tataru but Urianger can see. There at the corners of her eyes, a pinch of strain. He resolves to ask her later, in private, what ails her. 

The opportunity comes late into the night when all should be abed. Unable to sleep, he wanders outside thinking to take a walk to calm his nerves. Apparently, their thoughts aligned as he finds her sitting off to the side of the Waking Sands, leaning against the wall with her gaze towards the sky. Slumped shoulders, hands limp in her lap and twisted brows speak more than if she had tears upon her cheek. 

“Art thou alright, My Lady?” He asks softly, keeping to the corner so as not to intrude uninvited. 

She startles, head whipping around to him. In that moment, he can see the pain she’s been hiding for weeks, the doubts, a sliver of fear. It’s gone the moment she looks away from him, her expression hardening as she gets to her feet. 

“I’m fine. Just always have trouble sleeping before a big fight.” 

Against his better judgement, he catches her around the waist as she moves to walk past him. He expects her to strike him but she freezes, one hand coming up to grasp his wrist. She doesn’t look at him, staring ahead and ignoring his searching gaze.

“I’m fine, Urianger,” 

He’s had his suspicions for a while now. Thinking back, he can recall the easy camaraderie between her and Thancred. She had been careful in front of Minfillia, likely thinking that her becoming friendly with Thancred would cause a strain in their relationship. He is far from an expert but he suspects it was not romance that drew her to the man’s side but the recognition of a somewhat kindred spirit, someone that understood her and did not judge her for her faults. There is a hope that the grip on his wrist and the lack of shoving him away speaks the same of him.

“We will succeed tomorrow. The Empire will be pushed back and Thancred recovered.”

She snorts, ears pressing down into her hair as she turns away from him.

“Spare me the platitudes.” 

“Tis not a platitude, My Lady. Tis merely the truth as I see it.”

“Then you’re more confident than me,”

“Aye. Perhaps for now. But twas thee that maketh my confidence swell.”

She breathes a little laugh, glancing up at him with a smirk. 

“Your ‘confidence’ huh?” 

She’s deflecting. Carefully, he turns her to face him, keeping his arm around her waist lest she try to escape. There’s a warning in her eyes, a silent threat of violence. His heart thuds in his chest, a touch of nerves but more with a growing need to see her reassured. Taking her hand in his, he draws it up between them, his thumb rubbing over a callous.

“To defeat a primal and come out free of their influence is a feat once thought impossible. Twas these hands that proved otherwise. These hands hath proved time and again that what is possible is merely a matter of one’s own strength and conviction. The only limit beest thy will. And thou art nothing if not willful.”

She stares at their hands, at his thumb still stroking over the callouses he can reach. Her hand fits neatly in his, as it has for months. At any other time, the sight would be enough to stir feelings of fondness yet that fondness sits eclipsed by his need to see her confidence restored.

“That used to be a bad thing,” she whispers after several long moments of silence.

“To some, aye. Yet tis not the case here. Thy willful nature doth inspire others to rise with you and surge against those that would cause harm. Without it, we would not be here.”

She lets out a soft but ugly snort, lips twisting into a bitter smile. 

“I guess being feral is just my true nature,”

“Thou art anything but feral,”

His surprise at his own conviction would match the surprise on her face were he not enraged by the use of that word. There is something heavy in it, something bitter that speaks to a long history of disdain against her. 

“Thancred was the first to show thee that. Tis why his situation troubles thee. But where Thancred can show thee without words, pray, allow me to be the voice of it. Thou art willful, courageous, sharp minded, and loyal. Thou art short tempered, aye, and unwilling to admit weakness or injury for fear of betrayal. Yet thou doth seek improvement and doth not seek glory for glory’s sake. Thou wert thrown into this by circumstance but where many would bemoan their lot, thou hath risen to the challenge time and again with nary a complaint. These beest not the actions of some feral alley cat. These beest the actions of one that would protect the weak at the cost of themselves. And these beest the actions of one that will succeed tomorrow and recover thy comrade. For to bow to the whims of an oppressor is a crime that thou willt not tolerate again.” 

There is a fine tremor in her hand and her spine. Her eyes fairly gleam with the unspoken plea that he be right. Truly, Thancred showed her her worth time and again through mere companionship and easy banter, proving his ability to be trusted. Papalymo and Yda proved their worthiness by simply acting as though she had been there the whole time. Y’shtola, a sibling. Himself, a teacher and quiet confidant.

Her forehead pressed against his chest as her fingers slowly closed around his hand and his elbow. The tremors wrack her frame yet he is certain no tears spring forth despite her heavy breathing. Carefully, he gathered her closer, tucking her into his embrace to shield her as she has done for so many. Out of the corner of his eye he catches Minfillia’s approving smile, nodding once to him before she ducks back inside. How long they stay like that he isn’t sure, not does he care. Gladly does he lend her his strength, lend her his protection. Eventually though, the trembling calms and she carefully draws back from him. A flush, no doubt of shame, is high on her cheeks. Slowly, he draws his arm from her waist but shifts the grip of their hands to better hold hers. Without a word he draws her back inside, down the stairs and to the small library they hide in to read letters. He pulls a book from the shelf, one he himself goes to on the rare occasion his own insecurities rear their ugly heads. 

A small couch sat in the corner beside his usual desk and here he sits, drawing her gently down and into his side. She is stiff, confused but he is patient, keeping their hands entwined despite how much he wants to curl his arm around her waist again. With the book open in his lap, he begins to read. Before long, her head is a heavy weight on his shoulder and his own eyes are weighted. He should get up, gather her close and carry her to bed before retiring to his own room. But the blinks become longer and longer still until he is shaken awake by Yda. The book is gone from his lap, a blanket tucked around his shoulders and N’yxaela sitting placidly at the breakfast table looking as though nothing is amiss. Careful observation sees the restoration of her quiet brand of confidence, the easy set to her shoulders and the hesitant gratitude as she meets his eye. He returns her quiet smile and accepts his own breakfast. A busy day awaits them.

  
  
  
  


The operation is long and violent and terrifying but in the end they emerge victorious. Thancred sits slumped in a chair to the side being fretted over by Tataru and Minfillia. Papalymo watches on as Yda tries to out drink some of the Immortal Flames while Y’shtola settles with some of the Twin Adders. Alphinaud flits about, trying to maintain the air of maturity he’s been holding for quite some time but his excitement and relief is clear. He watches, keeping close to Thancred and letting victory settle into his bones. N’yxaela wanders the edges of the celebration, watching closely both inside and out for signs of a threat. Though he understands the need, he beckons to her still once she’s close enough. She huffs, glancing around one last time before making her way over.

“There you are! I was starting to wonder if you’d run off to save someone else already,” Thancred quips as she joins Urianger at his side.

She just huffs, crossing her arms with a smirk.

“And leave you to do something stupid so soon after saving your arse? Not likely. You’ll give poor Minfillia a heart attack.” 

Minfillia sputters a little, huffing in indignation.

“I would do no such thing,”

N’yxaela just raises an eyebrow in doubt. Minfillia is saved from more teasing as the Grand Company leaders make their speeches. Vows of banding together and ushering in the Seventh Astral Era, an inspiring speech to be sure.

“Shame it took all this to put them on this path,” N’yxaela murmurs beside him.

“Perhaps. Yet glad am I of it’s occurrence all the same. Another disaster may be avoided sooner.”

“Hm. You’re rather a bit of an optimist aren’t you?”

He reaches down to take her hand, fingers weaving lightly together, pinky extending under her index. He brings them up so that she might see, not daring to do what he wishes in such a crowd. 

“I am indeed, My Lady. I am indeed.”


	2. Chapter 2

“I knew Ilberd. From before.”

They’d crossed the border two days ago heading north, towards the only potential allies they had left. Tataru paused in turning the spit, the two rabbits she’d managed to catch earlier nearly done cooking. Alphinaud takes a little longer to register her words, looking up with a frown when he does.

“From Ala Mhigo?”

She shakes her head, watching the fire as she settles a little more deeply against the tree at her back.

“No. From the House.”

She doesn’t need to see them to know the confused look that passed between them. The words are there, not as hard to pull forward as she’d thought they would be. 

“There used to be a place, before the Calamity, called the House of Sand and Stone. It was almost like the Arena in Ul’Dah but… not nearly so honorable.” A chuckle escapes her chest. “Really it was more of a glorified fighting pit where people could place their bets and maybe, maybe you might get lucky.”

Silence but for the crackling of the fire. She shifts forward, starting to turn the spit again so the meat doesn’t burn. Tataru fumbles a little but takes the task back, shooing her away to sit back down.

“And you…. Knew Ilberd from this place?” 

Alphinaud almost struggles on the man’s name. Not that she blames him.

“Hm. The House would pay off people’s debts and in return you’d work for them until it was paid off. Ilberd sold himself in and bought himself right back out inside of two years. The next time it only took him one. They wouldn’t buy him again after that. Said it was a waste of their time and resources to buy someone that could pay off their debt so quickly. And I could understand why. His fights were… brutal. Sometimes they took so long the crowd started feeling bad for the other fighter. Other times they were over so quickly you hardly knew what happened. Our fights, however….”

“They had you fight him?”

How much did she really want to divulge? This story had never been told, not even to Urianger or Thancred, though she suspected they had their own ideas. Thancred knew the name “The Feral Wren” afterall.

“The first one was a test on the training grounds. Not a full bout. More to test my skills than his. I must have done well enough even though I lost because they put me in the next day. After that, well. I fought him a few times more over the years, including his last fight at the House. I’m surprised he kept his mouth shut given how pissed he was that I won.”

They pause the story then, Tataru dividing up the meal as evenly as possible. The stern look she’s given in warning to lessening her portion stills her tongue. Keeping the other two fed over herself won’t help them if they have to drag her the rest of the way to Camp Dragonhead. It’s as they’re settling to sleep, N’yx keeping her back to the tree to take first watch, that Tataru asks the question she’d been waiting on.

“How old were you?”

The question is soft, hesitant, like she’s afraid of the answer. She tosses another few sticks on the fire to keep it going, the crackling as the flames lick at the new wood nearly covering her words.

“I hadn’t started bleeding yet.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Camp Dragonhead receives them with a warm yet somber welcome. Haurchefant, much to her surprise, keeps his enthusiasm to his greeting, shuffling them off to the intercessory for privacy. Hot food and drink is ordered as Alphinaud takes a seat at the large table, N’yx and Tataru warming themselves by the fire. N’yx tucks her gloves in her belt, carefully flexing her fingers as the fire does it’s best to chase away the cold. But the cold, she suspects, isn’t one that can be chased away so easily.

“I know you came in rather a rush,” Haurchefant starts as he sets a mug in front of Alphinaud. 

A smaller mug is handed to Tataru once he steps over to them, Tataru mumbling a thank you as she carefully sits on the stone floor. The third mug Haurchefant glances between it and N’yx before raising it to his lips, taking a small sip before he offers it to her.

“But I do believe you’ll need some warmer clothes if you’re to make it to Ishgard.” 

The cider is warm and perfectly spiced, pairing well with the stew that’s brought in. N’yx not so subtly bullies Alphinaud into eating at least one bowl, cleaning her own with chunks of bread so as not to waste anything. In between bites, she relays the truth of their flight to Haurchefant who listens silently, his emotions telegraphed across his face. The recriminations Alphinaud aims at himself are not all that surprising. N’yx keeps her own thoughts of blame to herself, knowing Alphinaud will accept no shift in it despite the truth of her own suspicions. Haurchefant supplies them with a room and warm beds though sleep is a difficult thing to find at first. N’yx only manages to sleep with the comfort of a dagger under her pillow and the knowledge that the door creaks when one tries to open it. In the morning, Haurchefant supplies them with a few days worth of rations, warm, heavy cloaks and thick soled boots. Normally, she’d be opposed to wearing something so heavy but seeing how high the snow had gotten over night, she doesn’t argue. Better for their feet not to succumb to the cold. 

They arrive in Ishgard in the late afternoon, the guards reading over their letter of invitation and eyeing them suspiciously before begrudgingly letting them in. House Fortemps is not that difficult to find, thankfully. The Lord of the house was more than pleased to offer them sanctuary though it did come at the cost of helping his two sons. One of whom, N’yx was sorely tempted to box about the ears if he kept that frivolous attitude up. The only reason she didn’t, being the promise she’d made to Tataru when pulled aside just before leaving for Camp Cloudtop.

“I saw that look you were giving him,” Tataru said, hands planted firmly on her hips. “As much as I know you won’t like it, try not to reprimand him too sternly.” 

She can’t resist making a face but reluctantly agrees if only to set Tataru’s mind at ease. She just won’t tell her how she boxes Emmanellain around the ears after she, Cid and Haurchefant have to rescue him from the other Vanu Vanu. Nor will she disclose the only reason she gives Artoriel more of a chance is because the man knows when to stop talking. 

But her patience can only stand so much. Coming back to Ishgard to hear of the arrest of Alphinaud and Tataru sets the buzzing under her skin she'd been able to ignore the past few days to a full blown swarm of hornets angrily scouring her skin raw. To hear the accusations stated in that half nazily voice, dripping with arrogance and the self righteous assurance that only comes with an ego stroked far too often it was a wonder his palms weren't constantly chaffed, drew the world around her into a tunnel. The nods of the judges in acceptance of her stepping in for Tataru had sand gritting at her teeth. The gate coming down and a walkway letting her step forward sent a flush of high noon heat down her spine. Alphinaud stepped forward, grimoire already open and aether swirling around his fingers in preparation. Were this a normal circumstance, her lance would be spinning slowly over her wrists, drawing calm around her like a cloak. But this. No. 

The blade of her lance split the marble floor just in front of Tataru, the small gemstone charms clacking together. Prowling forward, gaze slowly shifting from the stands to her opponents, she pushed her coat aside and drew the daggers from their sheathes on her back. The wickedly sharp edges giggled in the light, whispering their gleeful calls for flesh. Two against one. Heavy armor versus light. Sword and shield. Two daggers. Low murmurs shifting to a dull roar to be blocked out. The start bell chiming.

In a rush she's across the small space, twisting between their heavy swings. They're faster than she expected, blades lashing out, shields blocking her daggers. Daggers that are angry with the denial of flesh. It is a familiar dance, one long seared into her muscles from the desert sun, stamped into her bones under the bloodthirsty eyes of a half drunk crowd. A macabre twisting dance of three bodies all trying to survive, to put on a good enough performance to be spared a fatal bite of the blade. 

One opponent goes down, her knee planted on his sternum, his sword clattering away somewhere. The second, with a snarl of rage and a shard of fear in his eyes raises his sword high. Her dagger an ilm or two from his throat freezes him, that shard striking a little deeper. A pause. A breath. A glance to the stands for judgement. Would it be up? Or down?

"-omplete! By the Fury, we declare Alphinaud Levaillier and Tataru Taru innocent of all charges!"

The decree comes slowly and all at once cuts through the memory in her ears. The sweat on her skin, while from exertion, is not from the desert sun. White and blue armor before her not the hard polished grey or dull bronze of the House. Clean cut soldiers not oiled up gladiators. Arrogance taken down a step or two with a cloak of rage to hide their shock and unease. Carefully, she slides to her feet, letting her daggers' promise linger in the air before sheathing them and stepping away, dismissing the whole matter out of hand. 

Alphinaud says something, Tataru startling when she pulls her lance from the floor. The buzzing still lingering in her joints and spine make it difficult to concentrate, pulling her awareness into a crystalline yet tubular focus. But that voice, that gravely, nasally, too arrogant voice, pulls her back round.

"I'd advise you to remain careful while within Ishgard's walls!" It calls after them. "The Fury might not be so kind a second time." 

Slowly, her head twists, shoulders slipping downward, arm raising her lance to point the blade at the one who would call himself a knight.

"I wouldst advise thee hold thy tongue, Sir Grinnauex. Lest  **_I_ ** not be so kind as to spare thy life a second time." 

It is satisfying to see him try to hide his fear in the twisted snarl and angered flick of his cloak as he stomps away. But it does nothing to ease her own rage. There is little interest in heading back to House Fortemps, not for her, not immediately. Instead she heads to the plaza and out of the gates, not realizing she had been followed until a second crunch of boots in the thick snow startles her. Her lance meets a shield, Haurchefant offering a tight smile as he meets her startled gaze.

"Alphinaud and Tataru are back at House Fortemps. I told them I would accompany you to blow off a bit more steam."

"I don't need a babysitter."

"Certainly not," he chuckles, "But perhaps a little cricket to keep you from tumbling too far down the wrong path." 

Her eyes narrow, watching that smile, those eyes, meeting the request. She should decline it. She should be insulted. Instead, the cricket is confusing.

"How can a cricket keep me from going down the wrong path?"

Haurchefant blinks in surprise, finally managing to straighten as she withdraws her lance.

"Jiminy Cricket. From Pinocchio. The story about the puppet becoming a real boy? It's a rather famous children's story from Gridania I seem to recall."

"I can't read. And I'm not from Gridania."

Both statements are accepted easily enough. Haurchefant accepts everything easily enough.

"Then I shall have to find my old copy. My governess used it to teach me so I believe there are some old notes in the margins."

She turns away from him as he speaks, striking out aimlessly in search of something to sink her blade into. Haurchefant falls into step beside her, an easy companion. A chattering companion. A companion who knows to only step in when the wolves get a little eager and try swarming her.

They don't get back to House Fortemps until late. Late enough they have to get something from the kitchen and sneak through the house to their beds. Haurchefant says nothing, simply grasps her shoulder with an oddly solemn nod. He's gone in a blink, ducking into the room beside her own. A room that feels far too large, far too open. But warm with a fire banked low in the hearth. She changes quickly, running a warm cloth over her skin in lieu of a proper bath and pulls the blanket and a pillow from the bed. The floor in front of the fire is far more comfortable.


End file.
